So Goodbye Until Tomorrow
by Val-Creative
Summary: Having escaped the Red Woman, Gendry wanders from place-to-place before heading North. He has no family, but he does have someone important left to him. /Canon Era. Gendrya. Standalone.
1. Chapter 1

**.**

 **.**

The narrow peninsulas of the Fingers aren't much different from Dragonstone: cold and bleak and rainy. Bare, treeless lands near the glacier river valley.

Hardly any people.

Once he's done all the rowing he can, Gendry lands there, starved and drenched and wheezing. He steals some rubbish meat pie off a windowsill in the dead, pale moonlight, shivering and licking the soured gravy off his fingers.

There's no gold or anything like that in his satchel, but Gendry travels his way up towards Coldwater Burn.

More people, and they're no more friendly than anyone he's met in Flea Bottom. Gendry avoids a knife to the heart in the nearby tavern, struggling against a drunken, raving man. They're both thrown out into the cold, cavernous darkness, with Gendry swearing at the ground and nursing a bloody, injured nose.

He doesn't feel much like a _king's_ son. (The Red Woman said it… … but does it make it true?)

 **.**

 **.**

Maybe it's luck, but Gendry manages to reach Ramsgate, closer to the North than the Vale.

 _Maybe_ … Arya Stark would be there?

She must be home already in Winterfell. It's been nearly a year, but Gendry dreams of her occasionally.

Nothing particularly vivid or colorful in nature, just… it's the _memories_ of her. That outraged, scowling expression. That trimmed chestnut-brown hair against her brow. She had been _too_ _young_ to be so full of rage and tension, practically a filigree-thread away from snapping apart or lashing out to others.

There had been nothing ladylike about her. She made him smile. She had been his _friend_. She wanted to save Gendry, but it had been too late.

He wishes he could thank her. For everything.

 **.**

 **.**

Another two years pass.

(He nearly been burned alive for a crazed hunt of King Robert Baratheon's half-royal bastards, and Ser Davos led him out safely in the middle of the night. )

Little to no attention strays towards Gendry's direction. He cleans and scrubs the floors and privys of a frequented, shabby-looking inn.

Nobody bothers him.

Unless Gendry _wants_ to be bothered.

A few girls insist upon his attention, and they're pretty enough with their dark, luminous eyes or dark skin beneath a pile of furs. He's not an awful kisser.

He's awful with names however, except for Durand. A squire boy with auburn-gold curls and a fierce, unrelenting smile. Durand tastes _softer_ than any woman Gendry has ever been fortunate enough to lay with. A fool and a dreamer and _green_ as spring Highgarden grass.

It doesn't last. Neither does spring in the North.

(Gendry watches one of the knights yell into Durand's face, turning away and wincing at the loud, harsh smack of armour colliding into skin.)

 **.**

 **.**

 _Arya Stark is dead._

 _Arya Stark is wedded to a Bolton._

 _Arya Stark vanished into thin air and became a full-fledged warg beyond the Wall, no longer tied to man or beast, destined to be ethereal._

Gendry silences the voices with piss-warm mead, vomiting into a small, leaking bucket cradled between his knees. The insides of Gendry's skull roars endless and deafening.

 **.**

 **.**

Another year.

Rumours of King Joffrey's death mean nothing to him. Or that another Lannister will take the throne. It does not matter to Gendry who is playing _king_.

 _(King's_ blood runs through his veins and you don't see him making any noise about it.)

As he discovers a smithing opportunity in a village southeast of Torrhen's Square, the whispers of _Stark_ reach him once more.

"You there—who is your Master?" One of the Northern soldiers interrupts him in the forge, narrowing his eyes. Gendry doesn't give him an answer, only pauses from hammering down on a gorget's molten steel. "Or do I need to whip it out of you?"

It's an partly empty threat. Gendry doesn't blink as he looks up and says dully, "Clyment Stammel."

"We need smiths in the castle who are worth a damn. Men who can strengthen armour and weapons from the sodding _shite_ we've got."

"I can do that."

Gendry isn't overly fond of the idea going further north, especially since the daylight grows colder every day. Maybe winter _is_ coming.

Doesn't seem like he's got much of a choice.

 **.**

 **.**

The outer portion of Winterfell's castlehold seems burned and charred away into ruins.

He works alongside the local smiths brought in from different ends of the North. They're barely decent at their craft and lukewarm to Southerns. That's fine with him. Gendry isn't there to get along: a bed and a warm meal is its own reward. At least there's no pot shops or bowls of brown.

But his heart aches at each mention of _Stark_.

"Lord Stark, Lady Stark! I beg pardon!" someone cries out.

Gendry's eyes tic up for a moment.

He can't make out what they're saying, but the boy in a wheeling chair solemnly replies to a serving maid gesturing frantically. He turns his head and nods to another, shorter girl holding onto the handles of his chair. She releases them with mild, frowning exasperation and steps back.

Gendry's mouth goes bone-dry.

There's no scowl on her young, pale features. Her chestnut-brown hair gleaming, gathered up, tidy and clean.

Bran Stark and the serving girl disappear into another entrance, leaving their companion to gaze after them, chewing on her bottom lip.

The dented helm tumbles into the snow-flecked rubble, slipping out of Gendry's hands.

"… _Arry!_ "

He's not sure if his voice will carry against the might of howling, wintry winds. The North is the place of Old Gods and they do not favor Baratheons and the Southern invaders.

Somehow, it's their _mercy_ he's granted.

Arya jerks around and stares, her eyes growing wider and wider.

One of her fur wraps billows and flies completely off her shoulders, hovering onto the ground, as she quickly races forward. The first sensation Gendry registers is Arya's sword hitting him against the left thigh, and then her arms locking tightly around Gendry's neck.

He picks her up off her feet, hugging Arya's middle and shutting his eyes. The wash of relief and shock mingling inside him dizzies Gendry.

Another person's warmth has never been so _intoxicating_. He's never been… happier.

 _Ever_.

"Gendry," Arya breathes out, as if delirious and weakened down to her core, trembling a little against Gendry's front. Their cheeks pressed together. When he sets her down carefully, Arya's smile slowly lengthens and returns all brightness. "I thought you were dead…"

"Me too."

Whether he means being in the Red Woman's capture or hearing all the rumours about Arya's own death, Gendry isn't sure.

"I'm glad you're not dead," he rasps out, forgetting the awkwardness behind the sentiment. "That…"

Arya glances him over and shakes her head, as if still unsure of what she's truly seeing.

"…"

 _There's_ the awkwardness. Gendry spots the hot, sudden flush rising on her cheeks. He's not exactly certain of _why_ , but can't resist teasing.

"I didn't recognize you at first," he says bluntly, grinning. "I thought I was staring at a _lady_."

Arya's mouth drops open as she huffs and curses and punches Gendry right on his good arm. Oh gods and hells, she's much _stronger_.

There's nothing to do but laugh through the pain.

 **.**

 **.**

Gendry spends a lot of time with swords, but not very much with _practicing_ using them.

He does not like the manic glint in Arya's eye.

"Are you going to sing when I hit you?" she gloats, twirling Needle with exceptional, fluid skill.

The courtyard surrounding them emptied out minus a old battering ram and a wandering goat. Gendry dodges a hit, but not the one immediately after, feeling a rush of air as she levels the pointy end dangerously towards his chin. "You got better, Arry," he mutters but smiling.

Her eyebrow cocks.

"You didn't get better _at all_."

Gendry thinks about knocking her on her arse, but he remembers a severe-faced Brienne of Tarth glaring at him from the cloister high above.

He side-eyes her cautiously, then rubs his nape.

"… Did I offend her in some way?"

Arya hesitates and follows Gendry's continuous attempt to not look Brienne dead in the eye, flattening her lips together to muffle her giggles.

She holsters Needle, tilting her head and gesturing with an open hand. "Come on," Arya shouts eagerly, taking off towards the opposite enclosed wall, hurrying under an archway. Gendry realizes it's soon to be a _chase_ , as Brienne stomps and hurries to get downstairs.

 _Damn_.

He heads out the same archway, leaping over a gaggle of wild chickens and ignoring the bystanders eyeing him with distrust, sprinting past them. Gendry climbs up a set of outdoor, weather-worn stone steps, already feeling winded by his heightened senses and the… _excitement_?

(Is that what it is?)

He doesn't remember the last time he had _fun_ with someone else just because they could.

Up ahead, Gendry witnesses Brienne's shadow darting closer. Just at that moment, Arya flies around the corner, nearly colliding into him. He grabs and spins her, clapping a hand over Arya's mouth and dragging them into the nearest alcove, hushing the protesting scream echoing to Gendry's bare palm.

The lady-knight runs past the alcove without notice, her armour and hauberk clanging until it's distant.

Arya elbows him rudely and shoves his hand away until he lets go, finally scowling for the first time Gendry has seen her in years. She's far older and somewhat taller, no longer a youngling, but it's still _adorable_ in a manner.

"I see you're still getting everyone into trouble," he says pointedly, folding his arms.

Her scowl melts away.

Gendry's stomach twists and feels lighter. He realizes this is a _very_ tiny alcove, and they're practically a footstep apart from each other.

"You're not having fun?"

Arya's voice softens without losing any of the friendly mocking intent. Her lips separate.

"I wouldn't say that…" Gendry catches himself staring, tearing his eyes from her mouth. "No, no…" he babbles out. "What I meant was…"

(What _did_ he mean?)

His throat clenches. Arya examines him, at first dubiously, before giving him another smile.

" _Was_ … …?" she repeats, very slowly.

Gendry wants to kick himself, but instead meets her gaze and returns her smile pensively. "What were we talking about?" he murmurs.

She rolls her eyes.

"If you're gonna kiss me, then you might as—"

Gendry closes the gap, very lightly pressing his mouth to hers, cupping the side of Arya's face.

A tiny, surprised noise escapes her, mellowing out to a long exhale out of her nostrils. He pulls away after a beat, looking even more surprised.

" _M'lady, I didn't—_ " Gendry mumbles, then stiffens when Arya's hands dig into his hair, their lips crushing together, noses banging. He cringes outwardly before easing the pressure, touching her shoulders and guiding a newer, less fierce kiss between them. It shouldn't hurt.

Arya isn't gentle or unhurried like this, so he won't force her to be.

Gendry opens his lips against hers, feeling her teeth nip down slightly on his lower lip, chuckling and pulling away.

"That was nice," he whispers, not meaning to but effectively ruining the fragile moment. Arya's cheeks burn a deep, mottled red.

"… _Shut up_."

 **.**

 **.**

* * *

 _GoT isn't mine. Woo boy! I have not done any fanfic for this fandom for so long, and haven't even written this ship before! But I had been talking with a friend while watching the new season and I got inspired, so here we are! Any of you Arya/Gendry shippers out there, come say hi! Any thoughts/comments deeply appreciated!  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_Final installment crossposted from AO3. The beginning portion to "Stick 'em with the pointy end" is written by Glove23, and then the following sections are a mix between my written sections and Glove23. Me and my co-pilot Glove hope you enjoy reading this and please leave your thoughts!_

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

"I have to go."

"No, you don't. Why would you have to go? Your family is here, Arya." Gendry says, gripping her hand a little tighter. "I'm here."

"I have to do this, Gendry." Gently, she slides her hand from his grip and put on her sword belt. "I have to kill her. Otherwise, everything I've done, everything I've learned...will be useless. Everything I've put myself through, would have been for nothing."

"Then let me go with you."

"You'd only slow me down." Arya shrugs.

"I'd only slow you down?" Gendry says, incredulously. "Is that what you think of me? As some heavy baggage you have to lug around? Glad to know you've thought so highly of me all these years. And here I thought you missed me." He slumps back into his chair, and stares petulantly into the fire.

"Gendry..." Arya sighs. "Are you going to say goodbye to me, or are you just going to sulk like a toddler?" Arya asks, standing by the door.

"I'm going to sulk." He replies.

"Fine," Arya says, "See you tomorrow, then."

She turns and yanks open the door, stalking into the corridor. She has made it all the way to the courtyard when Gendry catches up with her.

"Arya, wait."

She stops and turns toward him, expectant.

Gendry stares at her, taking in every detail, from her determined eyes, to her scuffed black boots. She looks too small to be going out and killing, but he knows she's more than capable. He seen her take down men three times her size, and that was before she gotten as good with a sword as she is now.

"'Arry…"

"I can't take you with me, Gendry." Arya interrupts, correctly predicting what he been about to ask.

"Why not, and don't say I'll slow you down again, because we both know that's not true." Gendry steps closer to her, his face imploring. "Let me help you, Arya. You don't have to do everything by yourself."

"I can't take you with me because I can't be Arya Stark to do this. And around you there is no one else I can be."

"Who are you going to be, then?" He asks.

She steps away. "Goodbye, Gendry. Tell Sansa and Bran I'll be back soon."

"Arya, don't-"

"See you in a few days, alright?" Arya slips further into the shadows of the wall surrounding Winterfell.

"You didn't answer my question, who are you going to be?" He calls after her.

She looks back at him one more time as she pulls her hood up. "No one." She calls back, and vanishes through the main gate.

Gendry stares at the place he last saw her. "Until tomorrow, then." he whispers.

 **.**

 **.**

As Arya rides south towards King's Landing, someone else arrives at Winterfell.

"Jon!" Sansa calls out, watching him walk through the gates. "You'll never guess who's arrived."

Sansa hurries down the stairs and out into the courtyard, taking Jon by the arm and dragging him inside. "She got here a few days ago, she's been dying to see you."

"Who, Sansa?" Jon looks at his sister's grinning face with unease. "Who is it?"

She looks at him and her smile grows. "You'll find out in a minute, be patient."

"But I have things to do."

"Oh, your things can wait, you'll enjoy this, trust me. Oh, Gendry! Perfect." Sansa calls out to the smith.

Gendry looks up, and quickly ducks his head again. "M'lady. Your Grace."

"Do you know where she is?" Sansa asks.

Gendry slowly looks up, defeat written across his face. "She left in the early hours, m'lady."

Sansa's smile slips off her face. "But... why? She only got here a few days ago, why would she leave? And without saying goodbye…"

Pain flashs across Gendry's face, and he says, "She told me she had to... to kill the Queen."

"Who? Who said she had to kill the Queen?" Jon demands.

Sansa looks at Jon, her face blank. "Arya. It was Arya."

Jon looks at if someone slapped him across the face. "Arya? She was here? She's alive? And she said she was going to kill the Queen?" He looks between Gendry and Sansa. "Why?"

"Cersei is on her list." Sansa says, her voice emotionless.

"Her list?"

"Her list of people she's going to kill." Gendry answers. Jon looks at him sharply, eyes narrowed.

"Who are you? How do you know my sister?"

All color drains from Gendry's face at the look Jon gives him. "I'm her friend. We traveled together when we left King's Landing with the Night's Watch after her...your father…"

"You left with the Watch? Why?" Jon asks.

"Arya was being taken to Castle Black because you were there, m'lord. She didn't have anyone else to take care of her. I was going because I was recruited. But we got separated after a while, because The Brotherhood Without Banners sold me to the Red Woman. Arya tried to stop them but...she was only thirteen. And not as good with a sword as she is now." Gendry looks down.

"She's good with a sword?" Something flashes behind Jon's eyes and he looks insurmountably proud for a moment before his face falls again. "Who taught her?"

Sansa looks at her brother. "She told Lady Brienne that no one taught her."

Gendry looks up sharply. "She said something similar when she left, m'lady. She said she couldn't be Arya Stark where she was going, and when I asked her who she was going to be, she just said, 'No one.' and vanished."

Jon sighs. "Well she wouldn't be Arya if she didn't do things she isn't supposed to. Glad something hasn't changed at least."

 **.**

 **.**

"Winter really must be here," Arya says, looking around her small camp. "It's cold even this far south." She drapes a spare blanket over her horse, and leads it a little closer to her fire. She hadn't wanted to stop, but she knows that unless she wanted to steal a new horse, she has to let this one rest.

And Cersei isn''t going anywhere. She survived this long, she should last a little longer till Arya can kill her herself.

A gust of wind bursts through the trees, making her fire sputter and her horse stamp the ground nervously.

A twig cracks in the distance and Arya stills. She strains her ears and heard it. A pair of footsteps bumbling toward her campsite. They aren't being careful at all, but they keep coming. The footsteps don't slow one bit, and Arya draws Needle.

She turns her body toward the sound and readies her sword.

The person comes shakily through the trees, and charges straight at Arya, but she dances out of the way. The person stops and turns slowly back towards her, revealing a pale face and very, very blue eyes.

They charge again and Arya stabs her sword through their stomach. She pulls it out and is about to slice Needle across their throat when the person's face flashes forward and buries their teeth into Arya's neck.

She cries out and shoves her assailant back. She presses her hand to the wound in her neck and levels Needle at the person.

That's when she notices the blood covering the front of their jerkin. Dried blood.

And the wound she gave them in the stomach isn't bleeding either.

"What are you?" Arya whispers. The thing doesn't answer. It comes at her again, and again she raises Needle, stabbing and slicing while the thing tries to claw at her face.

It's hands reach her neck and right before she shoves it again, it dug it's fingers into the gash it made on her neck.

And as she shoves the thing away, part of her throat goes with it.

Arya chokes, her mouth filling with blood.

She falls to her knees.

Footsteps shake the ground around her as the thing comes at her again and through blurry eyes, Arya looks up and raises Needle.

The last thing she sees before her vision fades completely is endless and dead ice blue eyes.

 **.**

 **.**

Gendry pounds and reforms a dented breastplate on the anvil, putting everything he had into making the armor useful again.

Trying to block out the voices in his head saying that he should have stopped Arya.

It had been three days, and there had been no word from her and no word from King's Landing proclaiming the Queen to be dead. He doesn't know what to think.

"Gendry, right?"

He looks up and came face to face with Jon Snow.

"Yes, Your Grace. We spoke the other day."

Jon looks him up and down, and at what he's working on.

"You as good with a blade as you are with that hammer?" Jon nods at the hammer in Gendry's hand.

Gendry huffs out a laugh. "Not by half, Your Grace. It was always Arya who had the talent with a blade."

"Not to take all the credit but I did teach her everything I know." Jon smirks.

"She did mention that, right when she challenged a grown man to a duel and had her sword knocked from her hand in about five seconds." Gendry grins, setting the armor on a table in the forge.

"I suppose I can't take any credit then, can I?" Jon laughs. "Pick a blade, and we'll see if my sister taught you anything."

Grinning, Gendry draws a sword from a stand and follows Jon out into the courtyard.

"Ready?" Jon asks, as Gendry takes a stance.

Right before he can nod, a shout goes up from the gate.

"Lady Arya is back!"

Jon straightens and grins widely at Gendry, before turning and racing for the gate, Gendry hot on his heels.

They both stop just short of the gate, and watch as a dirty and bloody Arya walks through.

"'Arry!"

"Arya!"

Gendry and Jon stare, confused as Arya stops a few feet from them, her eyes trained on the ground.

Gendry looks at Jon who is taking in everything about his sister's appearance.

"Arya…" Jon takes a step forward, and Arya doesn't move. "Arya, are you hurt, whose blood is that?"

There is something... wrong about her, but Gendry can't place it. He looks her up and down confused, and it isn't until Jon takes a deep breath that he realizes.

Arya isn't breathing.

Gendry's heart stops as confusion and panic overtakes him.

"M'lord. Something's-"

Jon turns to look at Gendry, his face concerned when it happens.

Arya's body unfreezes and she leaps at Jon, her hands seizing the straps of his cape and knocking him to the ground. As she lands on top of him, he sees her eyes.

Her ice blue eyes.

"No. No no no." Jon mutters, forcing Arya off him and getting to his feet quickly.

Jon picks up his sword from where it fell when Arya attacked him, and Gendry hefts his beside him.

"No, Gendry, I need you to go find Sansa. Make sure she doesn't come out here."

"All due respect, Your Grace, but there's nothing you can say that would make me leave her." Gendry says, his eyes locked on Arya as she scrambles to her feet.

"That's... that's not Arya anymore, Gendry." Jon replies, his voice breaking.

"I won't leave her. No matter what." Gendry says firmly.

Jon shakes his head and looks at his sister, tears in his eyes. He raises Longclaw and grimaces. He shakes his head again, leaping forward with a cry overflowing with pain.

She dodges his first strike, lithe and graceful, but she can't avoid the quick stab that followed.

Jon let out a sob as he stabs his baby sister through the heart. He follows her as she falls to the ground, tears falling onto her clothes. He cradles her body in his arms as he stares at her face. Gendry falls to his knees on the ground beside them and the only thing Jon can think, is of some of the last words he spoke to her.

 _'Stick 'em with the pointy end._

 **.**

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

A strangled half-cry escapes Gendry's mouth, as soon as Jon's sword runs Arya through.

This isn't a sight he ever imagined coming true. Nightmarish as the ghastly blue of Arya's eyes, and the dried, blackened blood upon her collar and leathered doublet.

It's not Arya, and yet it holds her body captive to its bidding.

She halts in place, ice-crusted fingernails a narrow margin from clawing Jon's face, now impaling herself upon the Valyrian steel blade. Arya's form goes limp, releasing any more fight left within her, and Gendry's hand cradles the back of Arya's head.

All of her... gone cold. So cold. She's been like this for a while.

There's no stench of death off her, from her mud-stained garments or the bloody, gory mess remaining of Arya's throat hardly supporting her neck up...

Gendry's stomach curdles. He turns his head away from Jon who appears to no longer be weeping or screaming in emotional agony, gasping aloud and shuddering. A meaty, bile-filled cough. A film of sweat plasters over Gendry's forehead as he composes himself.

"It's over," Jon whispers, refusing to look away from his sister. It's unclear who he addresses, when Jon's fingertips brush tenderly over her faintly bruised temple.

Gendry wipes his mouth with a sleeve, bowing his head. The weight of grief creeping in.

He barely notices the hurrying footsteps crunching through gravel and snow. A red-cheeked and wide-eyed Lady Sansa pushes around one of the stunned maesters, grasping up her skirts. She hesitates a few feet away, staring outright at both men, confused and indignant.

"What is it then? I was in the middle of..." she demands, glancing down Jon's lap. Sansa's face goes rigid, slowly draining of color. "... ... What have you done?"

Her voice as soft and dim as birdsong.

Gendry shakes his head, panicking and climbing to his feet. "M'lady, don't—"

"Sansa, you need to stay back," Jon yells, not moving away from cradling Arya's lifeless body with his arm and hand still clutching Longclaw. "I don't need you to be seeing it like this."

Ignoring him, she staggers forward and quick about it, now caught against Gendry's sturdy arm reaching, holding onto her waist.

"What have you done to her!?" Sansa yells back, struggling weakly to get free. Her tears spilling on her pale cheeks. "Arya! _Arya_!"

When there's no answer, not from a single soul, she collapses onto the ground, taking Gendry with her. Each loud, heart-wrenching sob feels like Longclaw itself jabbing repeatedly into Gendry.

Jon gazes back to a still-expressioned Arya, bending over and kissing her forehead lightly.

With as much care he shown her in life, Jon lifts and arranges her body, laying it down with Arya's head rolling softly sideways. He motions to Gendry who heeds him and stands with both him and Sansa upright, as a gravely frowning Jon marches in their direction.

As soon as he drops his clattering sword, Sansa latches onto Jon, hiding her face into his cloak's spotted, dark furs. She cries harder than ever. Gendry watches in mounting numbness as she quivers against him, as Jon touches her auburn hair, rocking Sansa gently.

Jon's weather-chapped mouth separates, uttering, "The Others..."

 _They took her from us._

Silence billows, permeating the air with tension and mourning.

 **.**

 **.**

Jon and Gendry leave Arya's body with the maesters, to preserve it until a crypt can be built. Jon had been reluctant to leave her, but Gendry pointed out that no one else could tell Bran.

That broke Jon out of his fog, and a whole new kind of pain develops on his face, so much that Gendry felt horrible for mentioning the youngest Stark.

Climbing the last few steps of the staircase, Jon and Gendry stop outside of Bran's chamber.

"You should... be alone for this. I'll wait out here." Gendry mutters.

Jon stares at the door, and then turns to Gendry, looking lost. "I don't think I can do it alone."

"He's your brother, Your Grace."

"I know..."

Jon takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

"Jon, Gendry, come in." Bran's voice calls from inside.

Entering the room, Jon immediately moves to his brother's side and Bran looks up at him, his face expressionless. Gendry watches from the doorway as Jon gathers himself, looking lost.

"Bran... there's something you need to know."

"It's alright, Jon. I already know." Bran looks out his window, and gazes right into the center of the courtyard. "I'm sorry you had to do that, Jon. I wish I could've stopped it."

"There's nothing you could've done, Bran." Jon says, resting his hand on his brother's shoulder.

"I should have stopped her from going. I knew this would happen if she went, but I didn't know how to keep her here. At least until you got here. I didn't know how, but I should've tried." Bran looks back at Jon. "I should've been there for her."

"She wouldn't have listened." Jon pulls up a chair next to Bran and sits down, a small smile on his face. "This is Arya we're talking about. She's too stubborn for her own good. D'you remember, when you two were little and she refused to eat anything but ham for a month straight?"

A smile slowly creeps over Bran's face. "And Rickon tried to copy her, but Father would have none of it? He said-"

"' _I only need one problem child in my life right now, thank you, Rickon_.'" Jon said, mimicking Ned Stark's voice. "I remember every time I'd find her hidden away in the armory when she was supposed to be sewing, picking up every sword she could lift and swinging it around. She liked to pretend she was a knight, riding off to some great glorious battle."

Bran looks back out the window, and says, "I wish none of us had ever left Winterfell."

"From what I heard, you didn't have a choice. It was either stay and be slaughtered, or leave and live." Jon reaches forward and grasps one of Bran's hands. "I'm glad you chose to live, Bran."

"I couldn't stay, not when I had to protect Rickon." Bran shakes his head. "That's why I didn't take him beyond the Wall with me. Look how well that turned out."

Jon closes his eyes and looks down, his face screwed up in pain. He takes a few deep breaths, and when he opens his eyes, they shine with unshed tears.

"You did what you thought was best. There's no use dwelling on it, because there's nothing we can change." Jon straightens in his chair, and looks Bran in the eye. "It's just you, me, and Sansa now, Bran. We have to make sure they didn't die for nothing."

Jon leans forward and pulls his brother into a hug, and Gendry takes that as his cue to leave and slips quietly out the door.

 **.**

 **.**

Days grow shorter, darker.

The Long Winter is _here_ , or so proclaims the King in the North. The builders of Winterfell scurry in and out of the undercroft leading deep, deep down into the Stark crypt. Arya's own crypt won't be finished until another several days.

Guards, severe-faced and pinched, they're sworn to barricade the enclosed wall of an outdoor chamber where Arya's body lies out frozen, waiting to be forever buried with her ancestors.

It's a lie—there's no waiting Arya does any longer. She's _gone_.

"Leave us," Jon orders, eyeing the multitude of guards who stiffly incline their upper bodies. He peeks over at Gendry as they disappear to patrol another area, clasping Gendry's shoulder heavily. "Sansa and Bran and I have said our goodbyes as best we can. You should too, Gendry." Jon's hand squeezes down, coming off amiable to him. "I'll leave you to it."

" _Thank you, Your Grace_ ," drifts on Gendry's lips, unspoken and trickling like smoke.

Jon vanishes from the entryway, as the other man trudges along in the shadows, finding Arya lying upon a block of chilled, wintry stone and a pile of bear-hide to cushion her. An ermine pelt envelops around Arya's neck and her chest, hiding her gruesome injuries from curiosity.

Gendry peels it back, exhaling sharply, tremory.

" _I_ _have to do this, Gendry." Arya slides out of his hands and glares at him as if annoyed, the soft, pale edge of her jaw glowing in the firelight. Dark brown eyes squinting. "I have to kill her. Otherwise, everything I've done, everything I've learned... will be useless. Everything I've put_ _myself through, would have been for nothing."_

"I shouldn't have listened to you," Gendry says, dull and forlorn, tucking the pelt's corner under Arya's ear. "I should have followed you."

His thumbnail strokes over her earlobe. He wishes distantly that Arya would leap up and screech in his face, pretending to attack, laughing and wriggling in Gendry's arms as he would trap her and kiss her mouth and tell her...

"I should have done a lot of things before."

 **.**

 **.**

A monstrously large wolf sneaks from the forest, occupying herself within the remaining space of the freezing, outdoor chamber, hunching down with Arya and snarling at intruders as a warning.

Instead of killing the beast, as other nervous bannerman suggest, Jon dismisses the guards.

"She'll never be safer than she is with Nymeria," he explains, and Gendry stares wonderstruck. Arya's _direwolf?_ The one who was lost for good?

There's nothing to be done. Nymeria snuffles Arya's body and emits a high-pitched whine, licking her hairline occasionally, resting a gigantic muzzle against Arya's stomach, those luminous, golden-brown wolf eyes lidding.

Ghost—Jon's own direwolf, he recalls—pads towards his bigger, alpha sister, growling softly in wariness and acknowledgement.

They sniff each other, tails lowering. Ghost nuzzles up to her, slow-blinking his red eyes, accepting a playful, open bite to his scruff and rolling down on her. Nymeria growls back.

 **.**

 **.**

Taper-light brings a rosiness to Sansa's cheeks. Or perhaps it's only the private crying fits.

"You can stay here if you like..." she offers quietly, gesturing inside Arya's bedchambers as Gendry circles around, examining a worn longbow propped against a bedstead. "I've caught you sneaking out of here before."

Despite himself, he reddens under Sansa's attention. "... To sleep only, m'lady."

(Not entirely truthful, but she needn't know that. Sleep often accompanied wandering feelings and wandering hands, brimming affection.)

She gives a pleasant nod and a hum.

"Arya _would_ —" Sansa's voice suddenly breaks apart. Her throat clenches. "She never like sleeping alone, not at all," Sansa's announces louder, forcing a watery smile. "I would get so furious with her when she woke me during the hour of the bat and crawl into my bed. She would do that with Mother and Father as well."

"She had changed a lot then." Gendry smiles thinly. "Anyone ever tried to get near 'Arry in the night, she would have cut their balls off."

"Arry...?"

"The name she gave herself in hiding, m'lady."

Sansa's flowery blue eyes slip shut. "We were so _little_ when we left for King's Landing..." Gendry watches her quiver again, and says nothing. Does nothing. Nothing can fix this.

Through the barred, locked window, two direwolves howl, long and low and mournful.

 **.**

 **.**

 _Arya Stark is dead._

Gendry drinks another tankard of dark, strong beer, in attempts of silencing the reminder.

There's a band of smallfolk near the crypts, as Arya's body gets freshened and carried away. He avoids that part of the castle, as well as the forge and clutches onto his war-hammer.

He needs something to _hit_.

A wrong turn leads Gendry into a mossy green stretch of land with flecks of snow capping it, encompassed by bone-white trees with glossy, crimson leaves fluttering high above.

Bran Stark sits alone under the largest one. "Has Nymeria left?" he asks, startling him.

"I-I believe so, m'lord," Gendry tells him.

He lowers his war-hammer, painfully aware of how his own words slur a bit towards the end. Beer shouldn't ever be this strong.

"I'm not a lord," Bran says indifferently. Gendry's heart races, when a pair of familiar grey eyes gaze over him, young and full of complacency. "And Jon is not a bastard."

Gendry lets out a fatigued groan, rubbing an eyelid with the side of his unscrubbed fist.

"Shouldn't you be with your brother and sister?"

"Yes, I suppose so." Bran's murmur falls and soars into Gendry's hearing, like a morning breeze. "It must have been terrible. But you know she fought it, don't you?"

Gendry's muscles go taut. He swallows.

" _M'lord_..."

"A part of her soul remained after. Why do you think she came to Winterfell, instead of returning to the Night King's side?" Bran tilts his head, frowning thoughtfully when Gendry's expression scrunches. "... You're sad. Don't be."

Bran's hand stretches out, pressing firmly up against the frosty, white bark of a weirwood.

"She's here with us in the Godswood now."

Gendry nearly stumbles into the hot spring, joining the other man, staring between the tree and Bran now smiling pensively, comfortingly.

" _She will protect us..._ "

His palm slides over the rough, brittle bark, until Gendry feels a splinter or two. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears a girl's laughter.

 **.**

 **.**

He couldn't bear to be there when they entombed Arya's body in the crypt. Gendry didn't know if he could watch them forever encasing her in stone. He went down after everyone had left and gone on with their business.

Knowing she's dead is worse than before.

Before he didn't have solid evidence that she was gone, so he always had a hope that maybe, just maybe she was still alive.

And she _was_.

But not anymore.

Descending the steps, Gendry notices a figure backlit by the torches, standing in front of Arya's statue. He walks towards them, and they looked up when they heard Gendry's footsteps.

It's Jon, and the torchlight shines on the tear-tracks making their way down his cheeks. He nods at Gendry and turns back to his sister's statue. Gendry makes his way over, and when he sees her statue, something large lodges in his throat and his eyes sting.

There she was, standing tall and proud, her hand resting on Needle's hilt, and a determined look on her face. They had captured everything about her, and Gendry can't bear to look. He looks at the one next to her. It's of a young boy, with wild curly hair, and a direwolf curled at his feet.

"Who's that?" Gendry asks, turning to Jon and gesturing toward the boy.

Jon looks over, and fresh tears stream down his cheeks. "That's my brother. My baby brother, Rickon. He died a few months ago."

Gendry suddenly regrets asking and looks away quickly, his eyes going back to Arya.

" _Lord Stark_ , your brother, he said... he said she fought it. The turning. That she didn't let it take her over, and that's why she came here." Gendry said, staring at the stone carving of her sword.

"I believe it. If anyone were going to do that, it'd be Arya. She never did play by any of the rules she was supposed to." Jon gives a watery smile to the statue of his sister. "She used to stand behind Bran and shoot bullseyes on his target while he was lining up his shot. He used to get so angry... they'd chase each other 'round the courtyard…" Jon squeezes his eyes shut, and draws a shaky breath. "She was my sister. One of the only ones who didn't treat me like I was an outcast in my own family. She didn't care. Arya was probably the one I missed the most when I left for the Watch."

"She does have a certain something about her that makes you never want to leave her side." Gendry said, his eyes tracing the carved lines of her face.

"I suspect your reasons were very different from mine."

Gendry looks back at Jon, but Jon isn't looking at him. He's looking further down the crypt, towards a statue of a man standing with a great sword in front of him.

"I've failed him, you know. My father. He would've expected me to keep them safe. I couldn't even keep myself safe. And now my siblings are dead."

"I've been telling myself the same thing, that I failed her." Gendry shakes his head, staring at nothing. "I shouldn't have let her go by herself. I should've fought harder to make her stay. And I'll always think about what might have been if I had. But it doesn't matter, because what happened, _happened_. There's nothing we can do to change that." Gendry turns to Jon, and clasps a hand on his shoulder. "Arya wouldn't want us hanging our heads because she's gone. She'd want us going out and doing something. Doing what she didn't get a chance to do, and taking revenge on those who took her from us."

Jon looks at him and he seems to shrink. "I can't." Jon says.

"What do you mean?" Gendry asks, confused.

"I can't help you. I'm tired of fighting, Gendry. All of this," Jon gestures vaguely, "it's all too much. I can't fight anymore, and I'm not leaving Winterfell again. This is my home, my family is here. I need to be here for them."

"But—"

"I'm not going to stop you." Jon interrupts. "You can go and do whatever you feel you need to do, or you can stay here in Winterfell. It's your choice. I can't make it for you, but I can make mine. So, I'll be here, if you ever want to come back."

Gendry looks at Jon for a moment, before nodding. "Your Grace." He says, inclining his head. Looking at Arya's statue once more, Gendry reaches his hand out and brushes the cold stone of her carved hand. He lingered for a moment longer before turning to exit the crypt.

He's halfway down the corridor when he heard Jon call his name.

"Your Grace?" He asks, turning.

"All the best weapons have names, you know." Jon smiles sadly him. "Your hammer?"

Gendry smiles.

"Thank you, your Grace." He turns back and walks into the weak winter sunlight.

 **.**

 **.**

There's no gold in his satchel, or a pony to spare when the blistering-cold winds hit, but Gendry travels his way down past the Twins. On the way, he faces a village of wights, setting them ablaze with a group of fearful men, leaving the Riverlands with a horse as fast as he can.

All of the heat-stench has been sucked out of King's Landing, replaced with greying darkness and flakes of snow blanketing the cobblestones.

Gendry doesn't intent on remaining there.

He drips red, deep _red_ Lannister blood from his cheeks and his warhammer, hitching Arya onto his neck's joint as Gendry walks out of the Keep, surveying the wintery, outdoor backdrop. The stillness, the quiet.

Arya was _meant_ to kill Cersei. And now she has.

Gendry's fingers clench around her handle. There's other names... weren't there? She would chant them before falling asleep...

 _Joffrey... Cersei..._

"The Red Woman," he mumbles, smirking and tugging his cloak closer, venturing into the darkness. "Beric Dondarrion... Thoros of Myr..."

 **.**

 **.**


End file.
